Simon Learned
by linda.ljc
Summary: Part 1: Prequel from Blair's POV. Part 2: Enter the Simon Zone. Simon's POV. Part 3: Sequel from Simon's POV.


Simon Learned

by lindaljc

Summary: Part 1: Prequel from Blair's POV. Part 2: Enter the Simon Zone. Simon's POV. Part 3: Sequel from Simon's POV.

A/N: I've been looking back at some of my very early stories, written for the television show The Sentinel. I've decided to post a few of them here. If you're not a fan of the show I will still be writing and posting stories for Stargate Atlantis.

Warnings, Ratings for all three parts: G.

Disclaimer for all three parts: All characters, places, and objects from The Sentinel belong to Pet Fly Productions, UPN, Paramount and the SciFi Channel. No money is being made. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story was written by lindaljc with the love of the show in mind.

Part 1...Blair 

Blair clung to his partner with rapidly weakening arms. The water was cold, it was going to be dark soon, and Jim was unconscious. The stress of keeping Jim above the rising water had Blair struggling to stay upright. The cold was making Jim feel stiff and lifeless. More than once Blair had to check to see if he was still breathing.

He balanced Jim once again under his right arm, and forced all the weight he could against the door that barred them from their escape route. Blair was furious. Safety was just a door away, but he was too weak to force it open. He waited once again for the tide to recede slightly and gave it another shove. It didn't give an inch. It didn't even creak. It just stayed there, immobile and unyielding.

He was furious and he was scared, but he swallowed his own fear. He couldn't give in to that. He had more things to worry about than drowning again. Jim was going to die if he couldn't keep him out of the water. He was already hypothermic. Neither of them were going to last long down here.

Think. Think.

Options.

1\. Drowning should always be the last option, so nope, not an option. Not for him, not for Jim.

2\. Get out of here. No progress forcing the door. Water pressure was only getting worse. No loose timbers even though this dock had seen a lot of deterioration from the water. No tools, except his Swiss Army knife, and his hands were too numb to even pull it from his pocket, and what good would it be against a door he couldn't force open anyway. His gun, and Jim's, were at the loft since they weren't on duty. They'd just wanted a little time off without any drama. Just a little peace and quiet. They'd rented a boat. They should have known the deal was too good to be true. Drug runners. No weapons to defend themselves with. Trapped in this dilapidated marina ... and his thoughts were wandering.

Oh yeah. Options.

3\. Call for help. Didn't dare do that too loudly or the drug runners might find them and they'd worked too hard to hide from them. But Jim thought he had heard them take off ... but he had a head injury and he wasn't totally coherent. As for calling 911, their phones were soaked and had probably already sunk to the bottom anyway, so no phone calls.

4\. Well, he could always try to ... CALL ... for help.

Boy, that was a long shot.

He braced them both against the rising surf. Could he meditate standing up, cold, wet, and supporting the Not-Dead-Yet-weight of Jim Ellison?

He summoned his waning strength, shifted Jim as high as he could, leaned his forehead onto Jim's, and left this place, in spirit. The next crashing wave brought him back as he cracked his head against the door.

Long shot or not, it was the only option left except ... the non-option.

Help. He needed to call for help.

Once again he shifted Jim higher, sought the peace of the spirit world, and sent his call.

/Simon/

His head hit the wall again, shaking him from his concentration.

He needed help. Call for help.

/Wolf/

/Wuff/

/Help us. Do your thing. Fetch Simon, Wolf/

Part 2...Simon 

Simon grinned in pleasure. He was exhausted but at least his budget report was done and approved. He looked out at his nearly empty department in satisfaction. Major Crimes was having an unusually slow spell. It wouldn't be long before even their paperwork would be caught up. Of course, then he'd have to work harder to find something to yell about. But right now he could sit and savor this delicious cup of steamy aromatic coffee. All was right with his world.

/Simon/

Simon looked perplexed at the sound of his name being ... called. He glanced quickly around. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. He shivered at the thought that it sounded ... ghostly. He must have been imagining things.

He lifted his cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip of the hot brew.

/Wuff/

Simon stopped in mid-sip and choked. He glanced up at where he thought the sound was coming from this time, and dropped the cup from paralyzed fingers. He choked harder. When he caught his breath he looked back at the conference table ... well, actually at the blue-eyed wolf standing on it.

He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. Oh yeah, this was Sandburg Zone time. "Sandburg?"

/Wuff/ accompanied by a tail wag.

"You're in trouble, right?"

/Wuff. Wuff./

"Both of you?"

And the wolf jumped down off the table and bounced excitedly around the desk.

"All right. All right. I'm coming," to the wolf.

It was followed by a mutter, "I'm talking to a spirit guide! I told them I didn't want to know about that stuff, but would they listen?"

He hurriedly checked his gun, grabbed his coat, and headed to the door. With a tone of urgent concern he said, "Come on Wolf. What are you waiting for? Let's go rescue them."

Part 3...Simon

Simon's rush through the darkening streets was slowed only by the seen, then unseen, wolf that led him. As much as he tried, Simon couldn't watch the wolf's every move. There were times when he had to backtrack and those lost moments made his heart skip in fear. Where was that damn wolf? Come on Sandburg!

He'd lost it again. The wolf was there a moment ago. Down the alley maybe?

"Wolf!" he bellowed. "Don't leave me now! Sandburg, he's your spirit guide. Make him give me a sign."

"Please, Sandburg," he whispered. "Please, don't let me be too late."

/Wuff/ answered a ghostly wolf.

"It's about time. Lead on." He muttered irritably, "Directions would be helpful."

He followed the wolf until there was a flash of lightning in the pouring rain, and a glint of light off a 1969 Ford-Sweetheart-of a truck. He twisted the wheel of his sedan and braked so hard up against the curb at a marina that the car rocked. He didn't wait for it to fully stop before he leaped out. He raced toward Jim's truck. The Ford's door was closed and locked. It was parked neatly in a space. There was no damage visible, no blood either. He could hear no other sounds over the heavy surf of the surging tide and the heavy rain.

He grabbed at his glasses, tearing them from his face in frustration. They were no help in this rain. Where now? He turned a slow circle feeling more helpless with every step. Where were they?

/Wuff/

Simon didn't hesitate to follow him.

He fought to keep his ghostly guide in sight. Guide. Spirit guide. "Sandburg, when I get my hands on you ... you'd both better be okay."

/Wuff/ and a howl came from the deserted marina.

"SANDBURG," yelled Simon, with the strength of his often exercised bellow.

The wolf stood at a darkened stairway. It looked like a docking area for boat repair.

"SANDBURG. Answer me!"

"Simon?"

Simon ran down to the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He had doubts about it being a stairwell because water boiled under thedoor sill.

"Now who else would follow your wolf? Is Jim there?"

"Simon, he's unconscious. I can't hold him up ..." 

"Sandburg, I'm here now. I'll get you out. You just hang on."

"There's water on this side of the door, Simon. It's deep and getting deeper. I can't hold him above the waves much longer. Get help, Simon. Fast."

Simon tried to force the door open, but he could barely move it, and when it did move, a gush a water had flowed through to join the growing wet at his feet.

"I need to call 911 and get a tire iron from the car. I'll be right back. You keep Jim alive, and yourself too. That's an order, Sandburg."

"I hear you, Simon," was the very weak reply.

Simon called it in to dispatch on the run back to his sedan. It took him only a few minutes to grab the tire iron. He hoped it wasn't too long.

When he reached the bottom of the stairwell he yelled at Blair, "Cover your eyes, Sandburg. I'm going to try to force the door, or at least make a hell of a hole in it. Ready? Here goes!"

It took a strong arm to destroy the lock. Water started pouring out immediately and swirled around Simon and nearly took him off his feet. He tossed the tire iron away and fought the drag of the water to reach his friends.

A pallid and wide-eyed Sandburg had his arms wrapped around a pale and unconscious Jim Ellison.

When Simon grabbed Jim, he lost Sandburg under the next wave. He reached down and pulled him, gasping, to the surface. He fought to drag the two helpless bodies through the pounding surf. Finally, leaving Sandburg on drier stairs, he was able to carry Jim up to the marina.

He rushed back to Blair, then more or less carried him up to lay beside Jim.

Ambulances arrived within minutes to take them to the hospital.

Simon stood dripping wet, and watched them go. He shivered, but not only from the cold. It had been too close. He remembered Blair's last words to him before he lapsed into sleep, or unconsciousness. He'd whispered, 'Drowning wasn't an option.'

"Shaman of the Great City. You sure earned the title today, Sandburg."

... 

finis


End file.
